The candles flickered in the underground chamber, and all twelve chairs were occupied. But today's atmosphere was different. There was no composure, no elegance. The breathing behind the masks was hurried and ragged, like a pack of rats cornered in a hole.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the person at the middle of the long table began, "I called you here today because of a name."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over every mask.
"All over Gotham, people are saying members of the Court of Owls have been arrested. That our people have tattoos on their arms, that they wear owl brooches. That we're afraid. That we're crumbling."
"But those aren't our people," a woman said. "Those people-the property developer, the retired judge, the charitable foundation chairman, or the insurance agent, whatever they are-none of them belong to the Court."
"We know," the man in the middle said. "But Gotham doesn't."
"Then tell them." A gravelly voice came from the left. "Have the authorities hold a press conference, issue a statement, make the media set the record straight. Those three have nothing to do with us."
"And then?" countered a shrill voice from the far end. "Then all of Gotham will ask: how do the authorities know they aren't members? How will they prove the Court exists or doesn't exist? Or prove we don't control them?"
"We can't deny it," the man in the middle said. "Because something only needs denying when it exists. And what Gotham wants to know is-what is that thing? The more we deny it, the more they'll want to know. And now that policeman has turned those people into the Court, and we're taking their place. People are eagerly watching a legendary symbol being defeated. When this witch hunt reaches its peak..."
He didn't finish.
"They'll burn